222. A fondness of rhubarb

A fondness of rhubarb lured me to the kitchen, where mother was preparing dessert. She had just finished poaching the delicious sugary stems and was now pouring the pink water into cups, to which she would add the cheesecake topping once the rhubarb sauce had cooled down.

The smells reminded me of the good old days, when dad was still around and he would show his son how to eat the dessert without wasting a single drop of delight. I couldn’t help myself and stuck my finger into one of the cups, despite a scolding from mother.

This was heaven. Here, this moment, in this kitchen. The smells, the taste, the memories of yesteryear. All that was missing was a grandchild to share the experience with, mom would probably say. But that was not going to happen. She knew that, and it had left a huge emotional void. She hugged me and I felt her pain.

The rhubarb sauce was cold now and the cups were swiftly filled with the cheesecake topping. I helped mother carry the tray to the parlour table and put one of the desserts in front of Jim.

“Taste this. If you’ve ever had a better dessert, you’re lying.”

One bite was enough to make Jim smile. His eyes beamed like those of a kid on Christmas Eve. The spoon expertly graze the cup’s edges as to not waste a single drop. Just like I’d told hold him. Just like my father had told me.

I still think it was that moment, that precise moment, mom for the first time truly accepted I was gay.

 

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125. It hurts me to hurt her

It hurts me to hurt her.

I know she’s probably crying herself to sleep right now. Like she did last night and the night before, no doubt. Lamenting that I don’t call. But she leaves me no choice. Though it breaks my heart.

There’s just no way I can forgive her if she doesn’t see that she’s wrong on this one. What she did was inexcusable. Had anybody else done it, it would have been sayonara for good. She should count her blessings that she’s family. That she gets another chance.

But she’ll have to earn it. No more vague ‘we can work it out’. No more ‘and let that be the last we speak of it’. I will take nothing but a firm excuse. A sign that she knows what she did was wrong. A promise that it will never, ever happen again.

I have thought about calling her. It’s been ten days after all. I don’t think I’ve ever gone that long without talking to her. It seems weird. Unnatural even. But I must persist. Or she will never learn. Or she will lose me for good.

The text message at five to midnight reads ‘we should talk it over’. It doesn’t say ‘I’m sorry’.

It doesn’t. She might wear me down, but for now my heart is a stone.

Though I might cry myself to sleep tonight.

 

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120. I think up words for a living

I think up words for a living. That witty wordplay that grabbed you on the car radio? That was me. That fancy new term your boss uses to fire folk? Me again. In my career I’ve conceived thousands of those. Not all of them struck a chord but a fair amount did. And each time I hear one in everyday conversation, I’m still proud.

Today I thought up another one. My best for a very long time.

 

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101. Higher

Higher, Isaac shrieked.

So Abe threw his son higher. A dozen feet into the air. The boy stretched his neck to look beyond the farmhouse rooftop but he couldn’t quite see the dusty road that lay beyond. It was paramount that he could.

On their next attempt Isaac barely reached ten feet. They had been trying for too long. Abe was getting tired.

Maybe he should finally tell his son what this ‘game’ was all about. But he couldn’t break the boy’s heart. He just wiped the sweat from his tiny forehead.

Does it hurt, Isaac asked, pointing at the gangrene.

I’m fine, Abe lied.

They tried one final time. This time Isaac could just peek over the rooftop.

There’s a man with a white beard, he said. Who is that?

Someone I made a promise to, Abe replied. He comes to collect. And I’m afraid I cannot stop Him.

 

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91. The Sunday visit to mom

The Sunday visit to mom is always a bit of an ordeal, but today takes the cake. She’s grumpy, annoyed, no fun at all. Looking for trouble it seems. And she finds it the moment she soaks the cookie in an afternoon tea that might as well have been venom.

Apparently she blames me for the divorce, now three years ago. I should have noticed dad was philandering. I neglected to warn her about it. If I had he wouldn’t have been able to siphon off most of their savings before abandoning her.

I try to steer the conversation to something more cheery, her upcoming birthday. It doesn’t work. She rants, sobs, weeps, swallows her words, then starts ranting again. The cuckoo religious overtones in her tirade are new this time. Me and my sister have jokingly discussed about dumping her in the loony bin before. Suddenly I’m thinking that might not be such an outlandish prospect after all.

I had vowed not to get sucked into her rants any more but I can’t help it. I am brutally honest with her and tell her that her anger will leave her lonely and isolated. She’s alienated most of her friends and family already and, at this pace, she’ll lose both me and my sis as well. I say lots of stuff I wish I could take back. I purposely hurt her. Then she does the same to me. When the dust has settled we watch TV for an hour without saying a word.

As I head home again mom hugs me for what seems like minutes.

“I’ll see you next Sunday?” she asks.

I nod.

She’s insufferable. But she is my mom.

 

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22. The wall of ice crept towards the house

The wall of ice crept towards the house.

Inside the Hunter family was celebrating around the giant Christmas tree, unaware of the silent but deadly killer lurking around the bend. Little Jimmy opened his present: a fire truck with a retractable ladder that could span the entire living room.

Thank you dad, thank you mom, he said teary-eyed, before hugging his parents. They were so wrapped up in the warm, cosy moment, they hardly noticed the ice shattering the central wooden beam on the living room ceiling.

 

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